Welcome To The Style Pile
by Kelly1
Summary: You know how in "The Toad, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" Pietro said Lance needs to make himself more presentable? And Lance tried to kill him with an armchair. This is their story. Lord help them.


** You know how in "The Toad, the Witch, and the Wardrobe." (Best Episode EVER) Pietro said Lance needs to make himself more presentable? And Lance tried to kill him with an armchair. This is their story. Lord help them.**

Lance finally padded down the stairs around noon-ish, hair still dripping from his shower. Todd gave him a funny little two-fingered salute on his way to the living room, carrying some grilled cheese sandwiches on a tray with a rose. Lance laughed to himself. He had to give it to Tolansky, he was persistent if nothing else. 

The rock tumbler gave his reflection a once over in the mirror at the bottom of the stairs. Alright, he looked decent, he looked clean . . . good enough. He had nobody to impress. Fred emerged from the bathroom and Lance gave him a small nod, "Mornin' Freddy. What's up?" 

Fred leaned in close, his voice a conspirital whisper. "I think it'd be best if you _ disappear_ for a bit Lance. Dicksilver's plottin' something that I believe involves you, Daddy's charge card and other unspeakable horrors . . ." 

Lance felt his throat catch, "Not . . ." 

"I'm afraid so." 

  
  
**Welcome To The Style Pile**  
  


Lance ducked low behind the sweater display seizing his opportunity to escape as Pietro got distracted by some V-neck cashmere pullovers. Despite the day's humiliation, Lance would be a happy man if he could make it out of the Banana Republic without adding something permanent to his _lovely_ new wardrobe. 

He cursed as the silvery head swivelled around, searching the store for him. He scooted over to the sock rack, yes . . . Lance was so close to the door he could taste victory. He serpentined on his hands and knees, just a little bit further . . . 

"Lance?" Oh please, not her. "Is that you?" Anyone but her. The familiar perky, button-nosed face crouched down and met his horrified stare. "Like oh my God, it is you." 

Lance stood and brushed himself off, attempting to look somewhat more dignified. "Hi Kitty," he blanched, "how's it going?" 

"Not bad," she giggled demonically, stalling his brilliant escape, "Did you highlight you hair?" 

Lance flipped up his collar, attempting to hide the offensive blonde streaks. Not his regular soft brown suede vest collar though. No, no, this was a rugby shirt collar, an American Eagle rugby shirt collar, an American Eagle rugby shirt collar that matched his new khakis perfectly. He was dressed like Summer's for fuck's sake. Pietro was going to die a slow painful death . . . "Um, a little . . . you know." 

She giggled again while Lance searched the store frantically, seeing hide nor hair of Pietro. He could still make it if . . . 

"LANCE. That's where you escaped to!" Pietro! Crap! 

Damn that vapid brunette. She was ruining his life even after they had broken up. Pietro straightened his shirt collar and tugged on his arm. "You have _got_ to see these jeans Lance." 

Kitty just smiled. "Bye Lance. It was nice seeing you again." Vile fiend - thy name is Pryde. 

*~*~*~* 

Maybe he could go back to the bathroom and hang himself with toilet paper. It would work - right? Anything would be better than going home looking like a GAP clone. He would never live this down if Fred and Todd saw him. Lance was embarrassed enough just to walk back into the food court. 

A group of tittering grade ten preps emerged from the girls washroom, smiling and giggling and whispering about him. One even waved. Lord help him, he was attracting fashion fascists. An atrocious little blonde smothered in makeup rubbed up against him. "Hi," she winked. "What's your name?" She placed her acrylic nailed hand on his chest. "Mine's Candy." 

A familiar southern drawl cut through the nauseating giggles, "Hands off ladies. He's spoken for." He had never been so happy to see Rogue in his entire life. 

As the gaggle of preps disappeared down the hall, he grabbed her gloved hand happily. "Thanks. You're the best." 

"Well, I couldn't just leave you in the hands of these cliquey whores, they'd eat you alive. Believe me, I've seen Jean at work." Lance snickered. "So what's up with the change in wardrobe Mr. Hilfiger? You letting Pietro dress you now?" 

"Um . . . yes?" 

"You poor thing." 

"Don't worry. I figure I'll just let the bitterness and rage fester inside me until it comes out in a violent little burst of evil and I kill the Speed-freak." 

"Well, there's an interesting approach," she sarcasmed, "But you know what they say . . ." 

"What?" 

"Revenge is a dish best served with Etnies." 

"Huh?" 

"Come. You have much to learn grasshoper." 

*~*~*~* 

Lance pulled the fingerless black gloves on, whistling happily to himself as he gave his reflection a once over. Alright, he looked decent, he looked clean . . . good enough. He had nobody to impress. Thankfully, Rogue had managed to dye the hideous blonde out of his hair. Ah, he was so happy to be back in his regular clothes. Now Pietro on the other hand . . . 

"Avalanche! Get me down from here. And take me out of these ridiculous clothes!" Pietro was tied to Bayville High's flagpole - wearing a huge _Less Than Jake_ sweatshirt and baggy Modrobes. Lance had picked it out himself. Rogue had helped with the knocking out and hog tying though. Sweet gal. "You can't even see my fabulous ass!" 

"Whatever you say, P." Ah, nothing like a pantsing someone in public to relieve some stress . . . 

"Wait, where are you going? You're not going to leave me like this, are you? Are you? Don't walk away from me. Why are you starting the Jeep? Lance! Lance?" 


End file.
